VIII. To give that life, which had not breath before

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

TO give that life, which had not breath before;

PROMETHEUS, from above, stole heavenly fire:

For which his boldness he was plaguèd sore,

A just reward for such a high aspire.

So whilst I steal from thee, my heaven above,

The heat which doth revive my dying sprite:

For rashness, mine eternal grief I prove.

Yet, though our fault ’s all one—the plague ’s not like:

He feels of vulture one, alone, the smart;

But I have thousands, which still gnaw my heart.